


We're always alright

by Ellerigby13



Series: Smile Like You Mean It - The Jay "Bucky" Barnes Story [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, F/M, Gen, Memoirs, Music, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 15:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20909657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellerigby13/pseuds/Ellerigby13
Summary: With some effort, Bucky, Steve, and Darcy sit down to start the introduction to The Jay Barnes Story.





	We're always alright

_ Pass me the whiskey, pass me the gin, _

_ Pass me whatever there’s drink left in _

_ Well I don’t care if it’s seven in the morning, _

_ For all I care it could be the second coming _

_ Well you say you can’t take it anymore _

_ You can’t live like this, it’s a really big deal _

_ Well I don’t care, can’t pay attention _

_ And I don’t give a fuck about your intentions at all _

Let’s see. You wanna know about my family first, right? That’s how every memoir starts. Broken family spits out a broken asshole, probably raised by a single crack-addicted mom after the alcoholic dad walked out on her. Maybe a sister who, with the lack of healthy male figures in her life, runs away on the back of some kid’s motorcycle, then ends up one of two ways: saddled with six kids in a trailer park the way her dad left her, or dead in a ditch somewhere.

_ “You may want to avoid dead in a ditch,” Darcy says, but scratches out the note in her small, denim-covered journal anyway. “Little macabre, little dickhead-sounding for a guy who’s supposed to be on the up and up.” _

_ “Little macabre dickhead has been my brand for as long as I can remember, doll. Rehab ain’t gonna change it now.” _

_ She shrugs, and snaps the red button on the tape recorder again. _

You want a tragic backstory for a tragic jerk who’s done a lot of pretty tragic things. Okay, maybe I fit one or two of the stereotypes you’d ascribe to some kind of dark side antihero in the well-rounded “Story of My Life” situation. I never knew my dad. I grew up poor. Only had my mom. That’s where the tragic shit ends. At least, until I brought it all back.

I never knew my dad because he died in a military accident just after my sister was born. I’ve got a couple pictures with him as a baby, but I don’t remember George Barnes. He was allegedly a hardworking kind of guy, and that reflected with the military guys coming around the house all the time to check on me and my mom and, yeah, my sister, make sure the bereavement checks came through. At this point, I should probably thank Sgt. Andrew Wu, SSgt. Clay Macmillan, Pfc. Christophe Lamontagne, and Sgt. William Sloane for the food, the babysitting, and for probably banging my mom when she needed it most.

_ “Buck, come  _ ** _on_ ** _ ,” Steve says, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. His elbows dig into the plush of his sweats, and when Bucky shifts his gaze away from the ceiling, he can see Steve shaking his head. He glances over at Darcy, who’s smirking a little as she continues to scribble in her notebook. “Your  _ ** _mom_ ** _ ?” _

_ “She ain’t gonna read it.” He kicks his slippers onto the floor and leans back into the frame of the futon, one arm flopped across his middle and the other lying limp at his side. “Even if she  _ ** _did _ ** _ want anything to do with me, her eyes aren’t workin’ so good anymore.” _

_ “Audiobooks are a big business now, you know,” Darcy chimes in helpfully, not looking up from her notes. “Maria’s already talked about having you read your own book, something about getting it straight from the horse’s mouth.” _

_ “Little macabre dickhead’s mouth.” _

_ He doesn’t have to be looking at Steve to recognize the expression on his face, he can hear it all in the dramatic sigh that comes from his direction. _

_ “Darcy, do I have to be here for this?” _

_ “Has he said anything inaccurate so far?” _

_ “...no.” _

_ “Is he likely to say anything inaccurate?” _

_ “...well, he’s not  _ ** _unlikely_ ** _ to stretch the truth.” _

_ “Then I need you here. To clear things up.” _

_ Steve sighs again, and Bucky tucks his hands under his head, closing his eyes and feeling his feet tap lazily together at the toes. _

But I digress. My mother is and always has been the hardest working person I know, and she did everything she could to give me and Becca as non-traumatizing a childhood as she could. There was always food on the table, and when Ma wasn’t at the nursing home, she was with us, making us memorize presidential speeches and playing crosswords. Whether I like it or not to sound like the little orphan Annie, my mother was good to me, and she doesn’t deserve any of the bullshit I’ve put her through.

I don’t really want to talk about her too much. You don’t need to know where she lives or what she’s doing now, but for any of you who are creepily concerned about my estranged mother, know that she’s not dead, she doesn’t talk to me, and, the last I heard, she’s happy.

As for Becca, there aren’t any motorcycle-riding jerkoffs sweeping her into child-infested trailer parks or killing her and dumping her under a bridge. My sister is probably the most successful young lesbian in radio, or at least what’s left of it, and if she’s reading this, this is probably where I should plug the Becca B Show on KRWS in Brooklyn...and her podcast Becca B: Off the Air, Into the Fire.

(Please note: My sister is a punny bitch. I had no say in the name of her podcast.)

(Also note: She’s been in radio longer than I’ve been doing music. So don’t get it twisted about how hard she works either, assholes.)

(Was it presumptuous of me to add that last little bit in? Am I perpetuating some kind of hypermasculine idea that my Irish twin sister can’t make it in the world without me, the washed-up big star? Is this a lady doth protest too much kind of situation? Probably.)

This feels like the kind of memoir where, if you don’t like digression, you should put the book down. Now might be a good time.

So there’s that. Aside from the quasi-tragic death of my dad, who I didn’t know and who I didn’t really long for, pretty much nothing to complain about. The problems I have never laid with a disadvantaged childhood. They laid with me being, like many people have probably said, kind of a dickhead.

So. If you’re here to read about the questions I get in every single interview and, without fail, have no idea how to answer, see below and you can finish reading. If, for some unfathomable reason, you’re interested in James Buchanan Barnes as a person, breeze past the Q&A to get a sense of me as a human being. Doing the best that I can.

* * *

Q: Will you ever use social media to engage with the devoted fans who want to know what a normal life in the day of Jay Barnes looks like?

A: Probably not. Social media sucks because every single platform promotes the self-obsession of people who don’t need to be any more self-obsessed. I’m not gonna show you what a “normal life in the day of Jay Barnes looks like” because it’s most likely not that different from any other alcoholic’s. Except that I have to record music and rub elbows with bigwigs to fund my terrible habits.

Q: When are you going on tour again?

A: Whenever I put out new music that I can get behind. Most of the stuff I’ve been recording doesn’t feel ready to release yet, if ever, so I guess this is the part where I say, whenever my muse hits. We’ll see when that is.

Q: Who was the inspiration for the song “Monica, Monica”?

A: I’m not ever going to talk about the inspiration for “Monica, Monica” because she doesn’t want to be talked about. Stop asking.

Q: Are you sleeping with esteemed graphic artist Steve Rogers, who has done the artwork for many of your studio albums?

A: Steve is my best friend. Has been since I moved to this town. If I were sleeping with him, you’d know.

Q: You have been compared to such celebrated alternative artists as Hozier, Florence + the Machine, Maren Morris, and even Fleetwood Mac. Do you feel you’ve earned the right to be compared to artists of this level of prestige and success?

A: You want me to say no, right? You want me to be humbled by the comparison to some amazing musicians who’ve received the acclaim they deserve, right? I am. I’m so fucking humbled by these comparisons. There’s no way I could stand on a stage or a star or whatever you’d have me do, next to any of these people. But I’m not making music to be compared to them. I’m making music for me, and I’d be lying if I said these people didn’t influence me, but God, I’m so tired of answering things like this.

Q: Are you dating anyone at the moment?

A: Not that I know of.

Q: Have you apologized to your family for the hurt you’ve put them through?   
A: All the time.

Q: If you could credit your success to anyone who’s helped or influenced you over the last few years, who would that be?

A: Steve. Maria Hill, my manager. My family. The fans. As much of a dick as I act like to the people who’ve given me my career and my success, I appreciate anyone who’s not turned the tune dial when my song comes on the radio. I appreciate anyone who’s bought a song on iTunes, or added me to a playlist on Spotify. I appreciate the people who come to my shows to hear the music, to be part of the Jay Barnes experience, whatever that means. And believe it or not, I appreciate the people who buy this book, or read it at the library, or listen to my stupid voice reading it in an audiobook. I’m the one who made myself an alcoholic loser. You’re the ones who made me an artist. Thank you.

_ Darcy blows out a long breath and sets down the pen on top of her notebook, clicking the button on the tape recorder. “That was really good, Bucky.” _

_ Steve has stood up and crossed over to the futon to give Bucky’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Bucky catches him flashing a smile to Darcy. “The public may just fall in love with you yet, jerk.” _

_ He snorts. “Not if I got anything to say about it.” _

_ The legs of Darcy’s chair squeal against the floor when she pushes up out of it, her arms rising above her head in a prolonged stretch. “Steve, is he always this difficult?” _

_ Steve laughs, pressing a hand to his stomach as if to stifle himself from laughing any harder. “God, you have no damn idea, Darce.” _

_ He watches her grinning at Steve before she turns her gaze back to him, like she’s reminding him of the night they spent together, like it’s a fun little secret they’re keeping about their relationship, their history. Except it’s not a relationship. There is no history. Just tangled sheets and her waking up to an empty bed. _

_ “Little macabre dickhead,” she says again, and reaches over to punch him softly in the knee. “Guess I got a lot to learn.” _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you'd like to see in this fic, since I have no idea what I'm doing outside of shamelessly borrowing from Bojack Horseman and A Star Is Born.  
Song lyrics from "Always Alright" by Alabama Shakes


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